Take a long walk to China

“In dwelling, live close to the ground.” – Tao Te Ching

When Emma was little—probably around 2 or 3 years old—I got some wise advice from a friend. “Get on your knees,” he said, “and ‘walk’ around your house in that position to see the world as Emma sees it. Is it interesting? Boring? Scary? Dangerous?"

Mr. Brilliant and I dutifully navigated through the house on our knees. Door handles were too tall to reach. Extension cords yelled out our names: “Trip on me! Wrap me around you! Tie up your cat Sim-Sim with me!” Photographs and pictures were too high to see. Books weren’t accessible. Sharp edges poked out from all sides just at eyebrow level. There was nothing at that height to interest us, just maim us.

Having literally seen the world from Emma’s perspective, we changed things. John installed little tiny door handles at her height so she could feel big and strong and empowered. We hung pictures down low for her, creating a whole little world down there where she was, not up here where we are. It was a simple accommodation, but a powerful one. Her little face broadened in glory when she saw the small bookcase holding her favorite book, “I Can’t, Said the Ant,” low enough that she could reach it “All by Myself,” like a Big Girl.

I was reminded of all this recently when Emma’s little sister Tess, now 3 years old, discovered a way to document her 41” tall life. A few months ago, when we weren’t looking, she began commandeering my beautiful and beloved Canon Digital Elph PowerShot SD600 camera (may it Rest In Peace and I’m not saying I’m Obsessed By Its Loss and I’m not saying that the smallest human in our home threw it away, but it’s a distinct possibility given her predilection for the trash can. I’m just sayin.’)

Soon we were privy to her view of the world—she took photos of tables seen from underneath, nests of seductively dangerous power cords poised under the desk like wild Amazonian cobras—and, in addition to all that, many dozens of photographs of her feet. First the left foot, then the right foot, then both feet together.

First the left foot, then the right foot, then both feet together, an unerring sequence, like a soldier marching in step, some tiny Tess rhythm, a rightness not unlike creating Chinese characters, the stroke order of utmost importance. Left foot, then right foot, then feet together.

There were literally tens of dozens of these foot images, some still and some action shots, a fascination with grounding, a connecting with the ground, just 41” down. She seemed to be setting herself on the earth, documenting her groundedness, validating herself in some interesting way.

In Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer, the main character—Binx Bolling—needs to discover a way to avoid living as a person abstracted from the complexity of his immediate surroundings; so, too, does Tess. “I want to see myself talk!” she screams after we make a mini-movie of her. “I want to see myself talk!” She, like Binx, is validating herself. He does it by seeing references to his life in movies—look! there’s a highway sign pointing to my hometown!—and Tess does it by photographing her little broad, plank-like feet with massive big toes as they dig into the earth. She is hanging on to a whirling planet. She has placed herself, which satisfies her immensely. She is documenting her little march through the world, left, then right, then both.

There is a certain amount of fascination involved, too, as if Tess is asking “is that really mine, is it attached to me, that appendage, that odd object, there?” It is a feeling I can identify with—yoga class does that to me.

Jerome Bruner’s brilliant book, Acts of Meaning, tells us in no uncertain terms that human beings are hardwired for story, that we – in fact – make meaning in our lives by storying ourselves. In such a world, ampersands become a friendship, glue sticks become a sign for who we are, lily pads become signals for deeper meaning and a deeper calling, a brownstone front cake becomes love. Tess, in making those photos, is storying herself, as we all do every single day.

She is creating and saving and validating the story of her life in the world, the story of her real life not her abstracted life, the one that ties her to the earth, not the one in her mind—or both, really, as it turns out.

As adults, we see things from such a sophisticated, disinterested, fast-paced distance that we can barely even see them anymore. A fire hydrant to a 41”-inch-tall child is an Event, a Shining Glory, a Sphinx. To us, it’s often invisible. Our dog, Blue, becomes an alien invader when seen from her angle, her vantage point.

We’re moving too fast in our compartments, according to Robert Pirsig in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: "You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.”

“On a cycle,” he continues, “the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming. That concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness.”

At the recent 37days retreat, the amazing people who gathered for those three days awoke on a crisp fall day and were told to gather at the lake near the lodge. “We’re going to take a long walk to  China," David informed us all as we stood near the water. “In real terms, that means we’re going to walk around this lake in the next ten minutes. But if I see you move at all in those ten minutes, you’re moving too fast.” It took a moment for these instructions to sink in.

I sat in my plastic-wrapped fracture boot on a chair near the dock and from my vantage point, the group looked like a fantastical, life-sized sculpture garden. There was only imperceptible movement for the next ten minutes. Some moved a few inches, others only a quarter of an inch during that timeframe.

When we talked about it afterwards, it became clear that each had their own unique response and strategy to the exercise. Some focused on a distant point either across the lake or across the world, others were frustrated by their inability to reach the goal, one focused on a pagoda and then wanted to change direction but couldn’t decide whether to walk all the way back to where she had started, or just launch into a new direction—all of this movement was occurring inside their minds. Whole journeys took place in there. Several people marveled at the insights they achieved by focusing on the micro-movements necessary to take a step, that by slowing down their movement in the world, they could feel each contraction, each lift, each anticipation of movement. The concentration on their toes, feet, and legs reminded me of Tess’ focus. Left, then right, then both.

~*~ 37 Days: Do it Now Challenge ~*~

Wallace Stegner has written, "I may not know who I am, but I know where I’m from."  Look at your feet on the ground you call home. Ground yourself, place yourself, literally, and live close to the ground like Tess does. Tear away the frame and be in the scene, near the pavement. Be completely in contact with it all.

Take a long walk to China. 

Notice your steps, even the anticipation of steps, the way your toes grab hold of the earth beneath you; if you are a wheelchair user, notice the ground moving beneath you as you navigate through the world—how are you in relationship to it? What shadows do you cast?

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